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a recipe for a black hole
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[27 Jul 2007|05:04pm] |
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i raise my glass to your raised eyebrows.
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[01 May 2007|02:31am] |
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i prefer mouths to lips.
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[29 Apr 2007|01:58pm] |
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when they ask me what i need i'll say a capo, a lemonade, a dollar fifty
a big bathtub, prosthetic feet, diana ross' role in mahogany
so i can hang out with billy dee williams, and he can hang out with me
pizza, love, and hominy, grits, peach pits, and songs to sing
more accountability so i can't get away with being mean
shooting stars, dungarees, band aids on both of my knees
a big old house high in the trees, a little shack down by the beach
a motor home with golden keys, an A+ in geography
and lots of time to think, i need more time to think
when they ask me what i've seen i'll say saturn and soliloquies
walden pond, hypocrisy, tetris, and insanity
debt and dope and apathy, ode to joy and pool parties
smooch and run and ancestry, arthur ashe and manatees
sailboats, necessity, lepidopterology
the cave of time, dignity, cirque du soleil and lethargy
surface area, rosaries, fair is fair and billie jean
vonnegut at the university, karmic retribution and bigotry
thyroglossal duct cysts, celibacy, love on the rocks, anonymity
osgood schlatter in my left knee, sad flute solos and decaf tea
silly friends, incontinency, yertle the turtle and hierarchy
do it for johnny, pepsilepsy, powder blue ten speeds and puberty
sylvia plath, conspiracies, bad medicine, karaoke
passing gas, irrelevancy, seize the day and let it be
loving dumb skaters who love pcp, dying and dancing on mtv
close calls and infinity, little kids who look up to me
it's the end of the world as we know it and we didn't start the fire and adam green
i need more time to think, don't you think?
i need more time to think
when they ask me what i need i'll say a capo, a lemonade, a dollar fifty
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[16 Apr 2007|09:44am] |
i dreamt that i had a huge box full of special k bars
then i woke up
and there were none
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| POETS: |
[11 Apr 2007|12:06pm] |
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music |
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tilly and the wall |
] |
i'm putting together a poetry zine for the zine fair in two weeks.
so.
if you have poetry (4 or less pieces) that you'd like to submit, please post them here or email me (achand22@student.scad.edu)...very soon. fair is the 20th and everyone trades etc. and if you post me your mailing address, i'll send a copy - working on collaging with random stuff.
so post away! i know you've been writing.
even if you think it sucks, send send send!
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| response to "spider season" by brcw, by aeec.* |
[08 Apr 2007|02:45pm] |
And as her chin dropped,
her lower lip became the soft pink cradle
for the thinnest glistening spiderwebs,
curling though the air to slowly reach down my throat,
and as our eyes caught
we felt the thin strands lengthening and thickening,
some trickling from the corner of our mouths
and sliding down our necks and
writing in cursive on the napes of our necks and down our backs,
words so frail but web so taut between our mouths that
neither of us would ever have the strength
to look over our shoulders.
* this was surprisingly an unintentional response, until i'd written it and gone back and read "spider season" and realized it perfectly well could be.
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| a bedtime story |
[08 Apr 2007|02:42pm] |
[[it is of note that the author hasn't been able to get around porcelain, soil and blooming.]]
Your mother’s belly bloomed before you were born, my father told me when I was eight years old. She listened to French violists for the first three weeks and lay in the flowerbeds facedown until worms tucked themselves between her fingers. Your hands were pressed up against the inside of your mother’s stomach and you were peering out of it like a porthole window, looking through the soil and down to the center of the earth, where all lost babies crawled on their knees and swam in the glittering aqua interior of the earth as their mothers cast petals down. They lay on their backs and clapped their hands and welcomed new babies who were peering though the mothers who carved holes deep enough to cradle their bellies in the ground, just as their mothers had done. Your mother remembered all this about forty-five minutes after your conception: the soft language the babies teach the ones who watch them, each secret that adults cannot know – the way in which they can open their eyes and turn their mouths to make an adult believe in God and how to wrap small fingers around much larger things that will make that larger thing feel so very very small, the right way to speak to adults at a few month’s age. It is where all the good babies come from, where babies tell each other about the wonderful things that await – the edges of bird feathers, new leaves that are so soft and yellow, the feel of hair and the skin in the crease of your elbow, the hidden flecks of color in people’s eyes and clouds and eggshells, the curve of seashells. Your mother’s face was against the back of my neck and as she was dreaming (remembering) all of this, the pink babies and their flower wreaths, her eyes fluttered in the back of my neck and we shared everything, and the very next day I dug her a hole and planted begonias and tall grasses and daylilies around it and circles of smooth stones. And after eight months of laying her stomach in her earthen nest, your mother at last bloomed, small purple and pink and yellow and white flowers pushing circles around her bellybutton and blooming between her breasts, and that day we lay together in the ivy by the creek, counting the petals trailing across her body and waiting for you. When it was time and her body was barely shrouded by the hospital gown, the doctors were taken aback, since sadly many women, their mothers, or even their grandmothers had forgotten to remember the babies’ lessons. But your mother smiled and told the doctors not to worry, and after you were born, her flowers lost their petals, framing the two of you in her hospital bed, but you can still see the soft pink dots along her stomach where the flowers pushed through and baby gurglings crooned along her stomach, soft pink dots of your baby kisses.
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| so rock me mama like a wagon wheel |
[08 Apr 2007|02:39pm] |
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music |
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old crow medicine show |
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look, o look. anna has been writing.
We knew the world had manifested itself into something new
the moment our umbrellas began blooming
in time with Woody Guthrie records,
your skirts pulled high and shoes long ago buried
with chicken bones,
mason jars and broken porcelain,
and that summer teapots sprung from your lawn in neat rows at two o’clock,
tipping in salutation to the church’s bells tolling down the road,
the ones that took forty years for you to reach
and once your arms were long enough
and you could trace the inside of the largest bell
with your smallest finger while standing
barefoot, flatfooted,
they fell apart piece by piece
and the clappers fell into your hair and sank behind your ear
so everything you ever heard was luminous and echoing and full
and you were never hungry and instead all that ever felt empty
were your mouth and hands,
so you reached so deeply into the ground that
by the time your hand had finally pushed through all those layers of soil
and found something to grasp,
you realized it was your own left ankle you were holding.
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[09 Mar 2007|11:47am] |
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music |
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sufjan stevens |
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fell asleep working.
woke up, delirious, with computer on stomach.
then wrote.
then fell back asleep three minutes later.
hmm.
We begin by bringing hooves in small paper bags to place at the foot of trees,
as their roots wind around our ankles to hold us like family crests,
and the days following are burlap sacks stitched to my inner arm,
filled with antlers and pen drawings pressed into the backs of our hands,
maps and grids of underwater cities, still sinking,
their inked waterlines intersecting to form the dewed likeness of our names.
cloth stretches over your eyes like salted oxygen,
framing each word the way you frame the syllables you speak to yourself,
your tongue a metronome
pushing our sleeves up to our elbows,
we grin in mirror-toothed unison,
standing tall like bold fonts on combed white paper,
stretching to fill own arms
waiting for our lines to form
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[27 Feb 2007|12:17am] |
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music |
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life in a glass house |
] |
well of course i'd like to sit around and chat
well of course i'd like to stay and chew the fat
well of course i'd like to sit around and chat
But someone's listening in
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[26 Feb 2007|12:30pm] |
your arms are wrapped in strands of beads,
mine hanging at my side,
blue ribbons showing through my skin when you glow,
our ankles tasting the salted flavors of springs
as we sit upright and dine with reindeer skeletons beneath layers and layers of sediment and sand,
none of their bones missing,
our spines sighing
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[27 Jan 2007|06:09pm] |
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motion picture soundtrack is my favorite lullaby.
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[07 Oct 2006|03:50pm] |
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There are angels in your angles
There's a low moon caught in your tangles
There's a ticking at the sill
There's a purr of a pigeon to break the still of day
As on we go drowning
Down we go away
And darling, we go a-drowning
Down we go away
Away
There's a tough word on your crossword
There's a bed bug nipping a finger
There's a swallow, there's a calm
Here's a hand to lay on your open palm today
As on we go drowning
Down we go away
And darling, we go a-drowning
Down we go away
Away
There are angels in your angles
There's a low moon caught in your tangles.
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| wooohoo! |
[26 Sep 2006|10:18pm] |
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mood |
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 ecstatic |
] |
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music |
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commerce tx - ben kweller |
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ben's coming to savannah this weekend!!
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[19 Sep 2006|03:33pm] |
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when did i become the workaholic who's devoted to her homework?
i've been called overachiever and faithful/hard worker three times by roommates etc. in the last two days, three times more than in my entire life.
it's storming. mm, i love it here.
whenever paul thinks of rain,
swallows fall in a wave and tap on his window with their beaks.
whenever paul thinks of snow,
soft winds blow round his head and his phone rings just once late at night-
like a bird calling out,
"wake up, paul. don't be scared. don't believe you're all alone."
"wake up, paul," whisper clouds rolling by
and the seeds falling softly from the branches of the trees.
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| accomplishments, annotated. |
[14 Sep 2006|02:24pm] |
i, anna elizabeth eve chandler, in the past 24 hours, have...
- literally nearly been killed biking on mlk blvd AND oglethorpe
- since decided that a city with the nation's highest murder rate really shouldn't mind if i biked on the sidewalks
- spent an assload of money on cheap art supplies...for one fucking class
- man has been shot in crotch whilst driving and ran honda into telephone pole, which blew up and crashed and no power for the night [or, i rode by the crash of pole immediatey after it happened, an interesting tidbit of info for you there]
- walked past the savannah jail at 11something at night with no power
- taken new englanders out for their first mexican food ever
- met the kind of people i want to meet
- fallen out of bed [again] to be greeted by dino porn on my phone
- started classes
- changed thoughts of major more often than breaths
- written scad's internet server and georgia power up for a total of about thirteen party fouls on the chart.
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[24 Jul 2006|11:54am] |
ideas for paper for egyptology has gone from role of the sun in egyptian culture to early egyptian feminism to tomb restoration to role of the sun in religion.
what am i doing?
i am writing a five-line poem about dung beetles.
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